


I've Got Chains And You've Got Wings

by EndlessNepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cuddling Castiel/Dean Winchester, Demon Dean Winchester, I don't really know what I was thinking when I wrote this, M/M, Protective Gabriel (Supernatural), Softie Gabriel (Supernatural), Stabbing, Wingfic, that's a tag wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18326864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessNepenthe/pseuds/EndlessNepenthe
Summary: Sam prays to Castiel when the demon in Dean wins (because as usual, Dean does some stupid things). Who knew Dean Winchester was so touch starved?





	1. Good Things Do Happen, Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not watched a single episode of Supernatural, but this somehow happened? I originally wanted to write a very sad and angsty second chapter but I’m debating if I really should...
> 
> My knowledge about SPN stems from about 1 hour of random Supernatural content I’ve watched on Youtube + stuff I’ve picked up from the general internet, so please don’t mind if some details are off, I don’t think I know nearly enough about the characters (but I heard SPN is ending so I HAD to write something) :((
> 
> I wanted to just put my original impressions of the characters here (because I know I am definitely going to binge watch the show really soon):  
> > Dean Winchester: just sad and broken and tired, always lethal, loves PIE and the Impala and Sammy and Cas, GUNS AND STABBY  
> > Sam Winchester: very tol and quiet and tired, dangerous, loves reading and Dean, scary when angry  
> > Winchester brothers: trying their very best to save the world, caused the apocalypse?, don’t deserve ANY pain and sadness, deserve to be LOVED AND APPRECIATED C’MON WORLD, dorks (who can kill you in a second) in like 5000 layers aLL THE TIME  
> > Castiel: v v powerful angel yess, adorable squinty confused bby in a trench coat, would fight heaven and hell for Dean  
> > Lucifer: somehow the whole fandom collectively agreed to call him adorable for some reason? He’s LUCIFER??  
> > Crowley: well liked by the fandom even though he’s, what, king of hell? Idk much about this dude but why does the fandom like ppl from hell so much?  
> > God: I’m pretty sure there’s God in SPN, there’s Death from what I know… but wth God? You really messing with the poor Winchesters like this??  
> > Death: doesn’t Dean kill this dude? How? Do any sort of conventional rules apply in the SPN universe? How can Death itself even die??
> 
> I don’t know, I just really love Dean + Sam + Castiel so much already, maybe I just really love broken characters — that sounded terribly sadistic, I promise it's nothing like that — because there’s something so beautiful in the way they’re knocked down by life again and again but they still get back up each time, sad and so so tired, but still fighting
> 
> (Title is from Devils Don't Fly by Natalia Kills)

_Cas! I’m sorry if you’re busy, but it’s Dean! Please._

Castiel raises his head, sitting up straight on the park bench. It’s late enough that there aren’t any people out wandering the streets, and the angel had carefully selected a place that was shrouded in thick shadows. Not a single person sees a trench coat wearing man with deep blue eyes vanish into thin air with the sound of a soft flap of feathered wings.

When Castiel arrives — for some reason his instincts had decided to take him straight to the hallway of Dean’s bedroom instead of Sam’s or anywhere else in the bunker, and Castiel is momentarily both pleased and relieved to discover that it had not been the wrong decision — like the faint whisper of a summer breeze, he finds the Winchester brothers engaged in what seemed to be a staring contest near the end of the hall.

Sam has his hands raised in a placating gesture, back pressed against the wall and cowering like a cornered prey animal. Dean is somehow towering over his taller brother, his entire being marked with something otherworldly as he looks down at Sam with eyes that were entirely black, hands curled into tight fists at his side. Castiel found it strange how they seemed to simply be watching each other’s movements, both of them trapped in an impasse that neither was willing to break.

“Dean, I know you can hear me,” Sam says, tone low and carefully even.

Dean doesn’t respond.

Castiel notices the muscles in Dean’s bare arms under his rolled up sleeves jump and flex, right before the angel wraps his arms around the older Winchester. Grabbing one of his own wrists with a hand, Castiel locks his hold, allowing his angel strength to surge through his body and glow in his eyes. Under his forearms, he can feel Dean’s chest heaving as the demon tainting the Winchester’s body snarls and growls like a wild animal, straining and writhing against Castiel.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs. “Fight it, Dean.”

The demon uses Dean’s voice to groan breathlessly in pain, and Castiel instantly loosened his hold. He knew it was the demon behind the wheel, but he could _never_ hurt Dean.

Dean shoves against Castiel’s arms with newfound rage and energy, forcing the angel to tighten his grip once again. Castiel could never hurt Dean, but he couldn’t allow Dean to hurt Sam.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs in Dean’s ear, voice dropping into a rumbling growl when it doesn’t seem to affect the demon in his arms at all. He carefully squeezes harder, pressing against and restricting Dean’s ribcage. _“Dean Winchester.”_

“Castiel,” the demon gasps, choking on an enraged snarl.

 _Dean, please. Come back._ “Don’t make me do it, Dean.”

Dean drops his head in defeat and stops struggling, unable to take in enough air to sustain so much movement. “...Wh… Cas…?”

“Dean?”

“Can’t breathe, buddy,” Dean mumbles, slurring slightly.

Releasing the now unresisting Dean, Castiel gently turns the hunter around. His hands firmly grip Dean’s shoulders, one hand placed perfectly over the mark of Castiel’s hand that had once marred the smooth pale skin like a brand, back when the angel had raised the Winchester from Hell. Castiel dips his head to meet Dean’s eyes with his own, satisfied to find the clear emerald green that always, without fail, glittered with the emotions Dean constantly sought to hide like a weakness.

Castiel’s mouth drops open in surprise when Dean blinks tiredly and slumps into the angel’s space. “Um.” Faced with the options of either wrapping his arms around the Winchester that usually had violent reactions to physical contact or letting said Winchester fall on his face, Castiel immediately decides on the former. Consequences be damned; Castiel could never let him fall. Dean could be angry at the lack of “personal space” all he wanted, without a broken nose.

This time, Castiel’s arms are loose and tender around Dean, who hums a happy note as he presses his nose to Castiel’s neck. The angel stands motionless when he feels Dean’s arms slide around his waist, the solid weight resting on Castiel's hips under his trench coat.

“...Dean?” Confused, Castiel looks to Sam for help, eyes wide with alarm as he dutifully holds Dean upright.

Sam slowly gets up from the floor, dusting his pants off and looking at his brother with a tiny smile that’s equal parts relieved and sorrowful.

“Sam?” Castiel prompts, frowning. _Please explain. What just happened?_

“He, uh. Dean hasn’t slept in a while.”

“Sleep is essential for human survival,” Castiel replies, narrowing his eyes skeptically.

“Yes,” Sam agrees, knowing to take Castiel’s words at face value after spending so much time with the angel. “But Dean’s been skipping out… He probably thought sleeping would let the demon run loose with his body. Guard down and all that. Coffee is a wonderful thing.”

“Is it?” Castiel frowns.

“No, I was— I was being sarcastic.”

“I do not understand.”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Sam patiently explains.

“Then why did you say it?”

“It’s—” Sam sighs. “It’s a thing humans do.”

Castiel squints at Sam, tilting his head to one side.

Sam runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “...Could you... I don’t know— watch Dean while he sleeps? Just in case?”

“Of course,” Castiel replies without hesitation.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“...G’night, Cas.”

“Sleep well, Sam.”

Sam nods, retreating down the hall towards his room with a wide yawn.

Left in the hallway with a largely comatose Dean, Castiel considers his options. He nudges the hunter experimentally, blowing out a silent sigh when Dean doesn’t even stir, body pressing heavily against Castiel’s. The older Winchester had at least a few inches on Castiel, and would quite understandably weigh more, making the angel’s current task that much more difficult than it already was. _Should’ve asked Sam to help._

“...Dean,” Castiel tries, lightly squeezing his shoulder.

Dean hums lowly, lashes fluttering like the brush of the softest feathers against the delicate skin of Castiel’s neck.

“You need to sleep on a bed.” Castiel lightly tugs at Dean’s arms, wrapped around his waist.

Grumbling listlessly, Dean allows himself to be manhandled into standing upright, one arm slung over Castiel’s shoulders. When the angel steps forward, Dean obediently staggers along, weaving and wobbling like a drunkard.

When Dean stumbles, suddenly lurching to one side and nearly dragging Castiel down to the ground by his neck, the angel instinctively allows the tiniest trickle of grace to convene between his shoulder blades. Castiel’s wings — not fully materialized in physical form, simply mere wispy outlines of feathers to the eye, created by thick shadows — curve protectively around Dean, supporting the greater part of the limp hunter’s weight. The rest of the trip back to Dean’s room is much quicker and smoother than before; it was considerably easier for Castiel to move when he wasn’t being crushed.

Castiel dips a shoulder down towards the bed, releasing Dean’s arm and allowing him to flop bonelessly on top of the perfectly made blankets, like a puppet with its strings cut. Dean’s lips part with a low whine of displeasure, fingers curling like they were seeking out the warmth of Castiel’s supporting hand wrapped around his.

A strange ache flares up in Castiel’s heart; puzzled by the unfamiliar sensation, he shakes his head, as if it would dislodge whatever suddenly pained the vital organ in his chest. Castiel focuses with single minded intent on meticulously unlacing Dean’s boots, carefully tugging them loose enough to slide each boot off and set them neatly by the bed. Before his mind could process the idea, Castiel is slipping his arms out of his coat sleeves, moving up the side of the bed to drape the tan material — warm from his body heat — over Dean.

Something like intuition or instinct, maybe just a nagging sense of something being _wrong,_ prods at Castiel, compelling him to step closer to Dean’s sprawled form. His anxious eyes sweep over the hunter’s relaxed face in a quick, cursory glance, attention immediately captured by the wet tracks that traced the curve of Dean’s cheeks like thin rivers.

 _Tears,_ his mind supplies, intrigued. _How undeniably human._ Castiel has learned and seen enough to know that the salty liquid did not usually come with a happy situation. Lost and bewildered, he reflexively reaches out with his first two fingers extended, drawing them back when he realizes forcibly pulling Dean into a blissfully empty slumber might create adverse effects, since there is a demon residing in the Winchester’s body.

Dean shudders, huddling closer to Castiel’s coat and frowning lightly. Although he was well aware that Dean was likely not cold at all — since the Winchester brothers constantly slept fully clothed on top of the blankets of beds in motel rooms — one of Castiel’s wings, with a mind of its own, stretches to rest over Dean like an invisible feathered blanket with warmth of its own. Sighing a soft sound, Dean claws restlessly at the smooth blanket beneath him, frustrated and desperate for something. 

Frowning, Castiel puzzles over Dean’s decidedly odd behaviour. His other wing involuntarily twitches towards Dean, craving to cradle the unconscious hunter between the strong feathers and keep him sheltered, safe, protected.

Castiel thinks back to what had happened in the hall, when Dean had first started acting out of character — besides the part where the demon was controlling his body, of course. The hazy relief that had shone in Dean’s green eyes when he’d met Castiel’s gaze. How Dean had chosen to fall asleep near Castiel instead of his own brother (but maybe it was only because Castiel was closer?). The way Dean had pressed himself, impossibly close, into Castiel’s arms, like he needed the contact.

With all the people he knew, Dean is consistently the one to initiate physical contact beyond accidental brushes and brief gentle pats, because he despised it like a cat did with water. Castiel, having spent quite an impressive amount of his time watching and studying Dean Winchester, noticed that Dean usually wraps his arms above the other person’s (usually Sam) in hugs, above their shoulders, opting to take on the more protecting role and allowing Sam to draw comfort from him. Ever since Castiel had first noticed, he had made a conscious effort to make sure that his arms were above Dean’s in the greater part of all their hugs, hoping to convey the way every single part of him wanted nothing more than to keep Dean safe; he still feels an indescribable happiness whenever Dean accepts being the one that’s protected, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s torso and resting his hands just below the angel’s shoulder blades.

But Dean had been miles beyond his usual levels of affection earlier; Castiel can still feel the way Dean’s strong forearms had rested against his hips, a startling pleasant feeling. The hunter was definitely more cuddly than he’s ever been before — maybe he was trying to ground himself through physical contact? Cautious and more than a little curious, Castiel hovers a hand over Dean’s face, using a thumb to wipe the wetness from beautifully freckled cheeks. Dean immediately responds by nuzzling into Castiel’s touch, pressing his cheek to the angel’s fingers like a cat that wanted to be pet.

Castiel flattens his hand, gently pressing his palm to Dean’s cheek. With a sharp gasp, Dean jerks away, shrinking back against the pillow. Frowning, Castiel lightens his touch, exploring, sliding his fingertips across smooth skin, up to the short fluffy hair he’d always wanted to sink his fingers into.

The frown that had been creasing Dean’s eyebrows smoothes out, his muscles relaxing again. Encouraged, Castiel hesitantly drags his fingers through the soft hair near Dean’s ear, reveling in the feeling of the smooth silky strands against his skin. Dean makes a half aborted attempt to shift closer to where he knew Castiel was, nearly rolling off the bed before the angel places a hand on his shoulder, gently nudging him back.

Disliking the subtle pinch of discontent and frustration that sat between Dean’s eyebrows, Castiel appears on the other side of the bed in a blatant misuse of his angelic powers, slowly lowering himself to his side on the mattress. He fusses needlessly over the shadow of his wings, spreading them until they bumped against the walls and ceiling of the room, shaking out and ruffling the invisible feathers. The feathery appendages still when Dean rolls over to face Castiel, all smooth and lethal grace in the way his muscles moved in perfect harmony. Castiel doesn’t so much as twitch a single muscle as he watches Dean wiggle closer, blue eyes wide.

Pressing himself to Castiel in a close mirroring of their time in the hall, Dean exhales a soft sigh, breath warm on Castiel’s collarbone. More confused that he’s ever been with humans, the angel absentmindedly drapes a dark wing back over Dean, careful to include covering Dean's arm — suddenly a familiar weight — at his waist, the sensation of a firm, warm body against his slowly growing on him. Dean is loose limbed and relaxed in sleep, pliant and supple like putty in Castiel’s arms, soft and vulnerable in a way that went against everything that made up Dean Winchester.

Castiel had witnessed (countless times, since he himself didn’t sleep), how the Winchesters — most importantly, how _Dean_ — slept, enough to be able to know exactly how it should be like: flat on his back or stomach, and one of his most trusted handguns strategically placed within arm’s reach. Dean considered sleep as a recharge he needed for the sake of functionality and nothing more — a daily mission he had to carry out, part of his job. Inching his hand under the pillow, Castiel’s fingers meet cold steel, and he finds himself once again hating that even though sleep is meant to be a relaxing and restful time for humans, Dean constantly treated it as a weakness, arming himself to the teeth like it was a war he had to fight and win. The angel had been on the receiving end of the barrel of Dean’s handgun more times than any of them would like to admit, when he’d unintentionally knocked something over or stumbled into a table in an unfamiliar motel room, the hunter jerking up like a shot with honed reflexes that raised his weapon to point at the possible threat even before he was fully conscious.

The stubborn and firmly closed off Winchester had never acted this way with _anyone,_ so it isn’t strange that Castiel finds this Dean unnatural, all trusting and open, two things that would never be listed as characteristics of Dean Winchester. He even briefly entertains the idea that this _wasn’t_ Dean in his arms, because _Dean would never act like this._

Dean shifts, as if he could hear the cogs turning loudly in Castiel’s brain, delicately nosing at his throat. “Cas,” the hunter sighs into Castiel’s skin, voice curling warmly around the nickname with a happy purr.

And Castiel is left even more confused than before. No one else in the world pronounced his name quite like Dean Winchester did — there is no doubt, this is _his_ Dean.

As Castiel hunts through his knowledge of human behaviour, his partially manifested grace tucks itself closer to Dean, recognizing the exclusively unique bright soul. _Dean, Dean, Dean,_ it seems to hum in delight, coiling warm and pleased and powerful inside Castiel. Shadowy feathers slide smoothly against the skin of Dean’s arm as the wing shifts to cocoon the hunter more securely, mimicking the wonderfully tight hugs Dean always gave Castiel.

Dean’s fingers twist into the back of Castiel’s suit jacket, no doubt wrinkling the fabric, and Castiel’s ordered thoughts stutter. He quickly abandons the idea of trying to categorize why Dean was suddenly acting the way he is — it was making Castiel’s head hurt, and not in a physical way he could heal — so he chalks it up as yet another thing he couldn’t understand about Dean and humans. Instead, Castiel leaves his thoughts to drain from his mind like water evaporating on a hot summer day, focusing on what he could feel in the moment.

What was the thing humans said? _It’s the little pleasures in life. Simple pleasures._ Perhaps Castiel understood that a little more, as he lay on his side on the soft mattress, Dean curled against him. One of his wings pressed awkwardly against the edge of the bed, spilling onto the floor like an inky puddle of shadow — the feathers of that wing would inevitably be a disheveled mess later, but that could be easily amended. The other wing blankets Dean, resting comfortably curved — Castiel can feel Dean’s warmth seeping through his trench coat and reaching the feathers. _Simple pleasures indeed._

Although Castiel wanted to stare at Dean, possibly even begin counting the freckles that dotted the pale skin like the most beautiful constellations, he knew Dean would be uncomfortable with it if he knew, so Castiel closes his eyes and refrains from doing so with a great deal of self restraint. He allows Dean’s deep, rhythmical breaths to lull him into a blissful state of emptiness and freedom, mind focused on _Dean_ instead of wayward thoughts. Angels don’t sleep like humans did, but Castiel reasoned that this was as close to sleeping as he could get. It was relaxing and so very welcome, comparable to soaring up through the snowy white clouds in a summer sky on weightless wings. Whenever any dark and doubting thoughts formed in his mind, Castiel forced himself to focus on the way Dean’s soft exhales puffed warm at his collarbone, how his wing is delicately nudged by the rise and fall of Dean’s chest, and the undeniably present weight of Dean’s arm resting against his hip bone.

So Castiel, Angel of The Lord, soldier of the garrison, thoroughly enjoys the not-so-little pleasure of Dean Winchester breathing, alive and safe and relaxed, for every second that he is graciously gifted with.


	2. You Don't Think You Deserve To Be Saved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know there are probably some rules about archangel possession and Sammy can't just pick up Gabe like he's a stray dog but let's just pretend Gabe likes Sammy enough to make sure Sammy doesn't explode/fall apart & that it's only a very very temporary situation
> 
> This is just a product of me learning about Gabriel; I'm sure he's done some bad things because Cas' angel brothers/sisters are (almost always?) trying to kill the Winchesters for some reason, but apparently Gabe has a soft spot for his Moose so this happened yay

_“Dean.”_

_“’m fine. Got it all under control. Stop fussin’.”_

_“I—”_

_“Not goin’ anywhere, Cas. Make sure Sammy doesn’t forget my pie.”_

_“...Alright.”_

_“It was just_ one _time, Dean. There’s no need for you to keep bringing it up.”_

_“Sam, cake isn’t even close to pie.”_

_“They had nothing else! Geez. We’re going, okay?”_

_“Mm. Gonna take a nap.”_

 

Castiel never liked having to use cars as transportation. They were too small, too confining, a thin steel box rolling on wheels. But as he sat in the passenger seat, Sam expertly navigating them through the sparse traffic, Castiel found that he had somehow come to enjoy the rumbling purr of the Impala’s engine around him. Perhaps the love Dean held for his car had rubbed off a little on Castiel. 

Usually, Dean drove with the radio on, switching between stations until he found one that was playing a song he deemed worthy of listening to. Unfortunately, Sam did not seem to share the same sentiment. The silence in the Impala was slowly suffocating Castiel, who presses his lips together and turns to the window, watching the scenery pass by with no real interest. Since Castiel usually used his angelic grace to teleport himself around, he had no real understanding of how long it would take to reach the supermarket; he trusted that Sam would take the shortest route directly to where they were meant to go.

His mind wanders, remembering the one time Castiel had seen something that wasn’t porn on the television. It had been a peaceful and bright scene with a small body of water, the camera focused on a family of ducks splashing around in the shallows after floating pieces of what looked to be some form of sustenance, the clean water droplets rolling beautifully off their smooth feathers. It was a warm summer, and although Castiel wasn’t affected by the temperature, he wondered how it would feel to fully manifest his wings into the physical plane of reality and dip them into a lake. Angels allowed their grace to clean and maintain their feathers, only occasionally seeking others they trusted to preen their wings as a form of relaxation, so any liquid was never required. Castiel rolls his shoulders back, pushing against the sudden urge to stretch his wings out as far as he could.

 _Cas... Please._ Dean’s voice is small, desperate in a way that sends terror sparking through Castiel’s body like a jolt of electricity. It’s as close to begging as Dean Winchester has ever gotten. Castiel _has_ to go. Now.

“Sam.”

Sam glances at Castiel, his lips twitching up in a terrible imitation of a smile, brief and fleeting. It was more of a grimace, really. “Dean call you?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

Sam is eyeing the road again, eyebrows furrowed in… determination? “He’s probably bored out of his mind, right? I’ll make sure to remember his pie. You want anything?”

“No— No, I’m… I’m fine.” Castiel trips over the words, voice struggling to remain neutral.

“Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Go.”

“Dean will be fine, Sam. You’ll be fine.” Castiel doesn’t know if he’s reassuring himself or Sam, anymore. He’s gone, leaving behind a soft lingering sound of fluttering wings, before the younger Winchester could reply.

Castiel finds himself in the library of the bunker. The area is suspiciously empty, but Castiel obliges the clear hint — or is it an invitation? — and rounds the empty table, walking towards the one chair that was pulled out quite far from the table, a clear indication that Dean had been sitting in it with his feet propped up.

The only warning he gets is a soft hiss of the first half of his name, low and breathy and desperate, before Castiel is being roughly shoved against a pillar by hands that were tightly fisted in the lapels of his coat. He’d instantly recognized the voice as Dean’s, so Castiel doesn’t struggle, allowing himself to be pushed until his back is pressed against the hard concrete. Before Castiel knew what was happening, soft plush lips are meeting his own, tender and loving. Eyes slipping shut, Castiel relaxes into the kiss, yielding easily when a wet tongue slides teasingly against his lips. Their tongues entwine sloppily, languidly chasing after each other and tentatively exploring. When Dean pulls back, breaths hot and heavy between kiss swollen lips, Castiel takes a single half aborted diagonal step, moving both to the side and forward at the same time. He didn’t know if he wanted to beat a hasty retreat or pursue Dean’s lips for another kiss, mind reeling with the sensation of Dean’s mouth, Dean’s _tongue—_ he’s so preoccupied with his thoughts that he only dimly registers the feeling of something dangerously sharp sliding into his side.

If Castiel hadn't taken that tiny stumbling step to the side, that blade would've been buried deep in his gut. Instead, the deadly weapon tore through Castiel's side with barely a whisper of resistance, the wound sinking half an inch into his body, just above his waist.

Wide bewildered blue eyes meet the full darkness in Dean's before lowering to the blooming crimson at Castiel's side. Using Dean's voice, the demon giggles, morbidly amused.

The sweet warmth and fuzzy happiness that had been dulling Castiel's senses in a delightful way ebbs like a receding tide, leaving behind a pain that burned like a growing fire. Castiel's grace flickers like the dying embers of a blue flame, struggling to heal the damage done to his body. It only succeeds in soothing the pain for a few seconds before retreating to curl deep in Castiel, too weak to be of any more assistance.

When Castiel falls to his knees, a hand hovering over the profusely bleeding wound like a nervous bee, he drags his gaze back up, eyes catching on the gleaming angel blade that was dripping with blood — _his blood_ — in Dean's hand. The black had left Dean's eyes, horror shining brightly in the emerald depths as the hunter watches the angel choke on a pained gasp of realization.

“Cas?” Dean whimpers, angel blade falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

Castiel tips onto his back, the pain that his weakened grace had worked to keep back returning and drowning him under a relentless wave. As an angel, his wounds were immediately treated by his grace, leaving him pain and wound free almost as soon as he noticed any wounds; but his grace, weakened too heavily by the angel blade, is of no help right now. Weakly, he presses a hand against the warmth flooding out of him like a river, grunting at the fresh pain. “Dean… I'm—” Castiel struggles to draw in half a breath, shaking. “...Sorry.”

Eyes brimming with guilt and terror, Dean shrugs off his plaid shirt, bundling it together. “I'm sorry, were you the one who stabbed me,” he quips in a feeble attempt at his usual sarcasm, voice trembling and thick with tears he refused to let fall. Dean gently removes Castiel's hand from his side, placing his shirt over the wound. Inhaling deeply, eyes trained on his hands to make sure he doesn't make any mistakes, Dean grits his teeth and presses down with his full weight.

Castiel uses all the breath he had left in his lungs to scream in agony, the sound sharp and rough in his throat — it cracks halfway through, his voice giving in with a rasp. He writhes weakly, all the muscles in his body seizing like he'd been electrocuted.

“Oh God— Cas— You're going to be okay— Please—” Dean rambles nervously, eyes darting around the empty room in a frantic but empty and useless search.

The front door of the bunker slams, and Castiel had never seen Dean make such an expression of relieved joy.

“Sam!”

Sam jogs into the room, hands somehow empty except for a gun. His eyes immediately find Castiel and Dean on the floor — the gun is flung onto a table, and Sam charges at them with the size, weight, and speed of an angry moose. Falling to his knees next to Castiel, Sam growls, “Fix him. Heal him, right now. No, I'm not asking, I'm ordering, you son of a bitch, _save Cas, NOW!”_

Dean makes a high sound of panicked confusion, glancing between Sam and Castiel.

A soft golden glow flashes in Sam's eyes before he happily murmurs, “I love it when you take control like that,” and presses two fingers to Castiel's forehead.

Glazed blue eyes widen briefly in surprise and a hint of fear before they fall shut.

“What did you do to him, you—”

“Ah ah ah, Dean-o, is that any way to speak to someone who just saved your angel,” Sam croons with a wide smirk. “But I couldn't let him die anyway, Sammy would cry.”

Dean blinks, gasping a soft “Gabri—” He cuts himself off, stunned; Sam looks _sad,_ one hand reaching out to gently smooth back Castiel's hair.

When Sam looks up, his eyes burn dazzling gold. “Don't you dare stab my baby bro ever again,” Gabriel rumbles, Sam’s voice dipping lower than Dean ever imagined it could go.

Shocked into silence, Dean wordlessly ducks his head in a sharp nod. He busies himself with carefully peeling his blood soaked shirt from Castiel’s side — Dean is _not_ afraid of the silent protective fury burning in his brother’s eyes. He’s not. He knows it’s Gabriel’s, not Sammy’s. But that doesn’t make it any less unnerving to see. Through the gaping hole in Castiel’s no-longer-white dress shirt, Dean is beyond just simply relieved to see smooth, unblemished skin. Desperate to know that it was real and not an illusion, Dean presses his fingers to Castiel's side, relaxing only when he feels warm, intact flesh under the drying blood. There’s not a hint remaining of Castiel being stabbed, besides the still warm crimson pool under him and the huge tears in his clothes.

With a sharp snap that echoed in the oppressive silence, Castiel's clothes are whole and unstained. Dean jolts in surprise when Sam gently lays two fingers across Dean's knuckles, his other hand curling against Castiel's cheek. With a rustle that Dean had long since learned to associate with angel wings, the trio are on the floor of Dean's bedroom, Sam's fingers swiftly drawing back from Dean like he was on fire. 

Dean gapes in muted shock as Sam carefully lifts Castiel off the floor with a soft grunt and lowers the limp angel to lie comfortably on Dean's bed. Sam runs a thumb over Castiel's cheekbone in a tender gesture that spoke volumes of affection and sorrow; he's gone before Dean could even form the thought that Gabriel truly loved his stony faced little brother. 

Dutifully, Dean sits in the chair next to his bed and keeps a watchful eye on Castiel for hours, until the angel wakes with a small involuntary sound, blue eyes bright and confused when they find Dean’s.

“You feeling okay?”

Castiel reluctantly drags himself into a more upright position, lifting his shoes off Dean's blankets. He blinks slowly, shoulders slouching forward. “I'm fine…?” With an expression of mixed alarm and wonder, Castiel tugs at his clothes, unbuttoning his dress shirt with steady fingers to expose his chest.

Feeling a little guilty but unable to force his gaze away, Dean watches as Castiel drags his fingers down his perfectly healed side, pink tongue unconsciously darting out to wet his lips when Castiel rests his fingertips on the sharp slope of his hip bone, understanding dawning in his blue eyes.

“...Gabriel,” Castiel breathes, glancing up at Dean.

Despite the certainty that glittered in Castiel's eyes, Dean nods as the confirmation the angel didn't need.

When they both find Sam in the library, buried in a book, there's a single chocolate bar sitting on the table.

“He's gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone else really delighted by the idea of Cas splashing around with his wings in a lake like a duck because I'm just imagining Team Free Will chilling and having fun without having the world end around them, at a — for some reason — abandoned cabin by a lake, having fun in the cool water during a scorching summer (and of course, enter Gabe being a little brat)
> 
> ...Epilogue, anyone?


End file.
